Harry Potter and the Path of Ambition
by Stjernefald
Summary: Ambitions. Ambitions has set aflame the fabric of nations and quelled the hearts of men. Ambitions gone awry have turned kind souls into driven monstrosities. A midnight duel with Draco Malfoy brought Harry Potter onto a path of ambitions. However, every ambition comes with a price. For Harry Potter, the price was the uncertainty of his demise.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. I only use it purely for entertainment.

**A/N: **A new story! I don't really want to say too much here, just let the story play itself out, I guess. The Harry Potter world of this story is somewhat different from the one in the books, and some relationships aren't the same. It's AU - I believe that's what it's called. Well, I think it would be easier if you just read it and found out for yourself, because I'm terrible at this.

Happy readings.

* * *

><p><strong>Crazy Spells of Nothin', Sweetheart<strong>

_Sometimes, my boy, it is hard to see the madness within,_

_for it is shrouded by all your good intentions._

_- Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

><p>Harry was running for his life. Of that there could be no doubt. The hurried, muffled steps of certain death were hot on his heels. He didn't dare looking back. The light at the end of his wand lighten the path ahead some, but all the corridors in this part of Hogwarts seemed identical, and Harry knew he was lost. He had heard Fred's shout a moment ago, realized that they had been made, and grabbed the last items on his list and made a run for it.<p>

Now there was only darkness, hurried footsteps of the unknown, and the certainty of his demise should those footsteps catch up with him.

A heavy clunk-like sound of an inefficient, adolescent run that ended in a fall broke the still air of the early morning darkness, and Ron gave a short cry of surprised pain up ahead. Harry swore and took the nearest right, and headed down the corridor from which he thought he had heard Ron's howl in pain. But when he got there at last, Ron wasn't there, and Harry was forced to move onwards, as the enemy prowling the corridors of Hogwarts at night came ever closer.

Harry took the next left and found himself in a corridor with windows. It had become so late that you might consider it early, and a soft hue of light shone in through the windows, giving Harry enough light so that even his terrible eyesight could see in the dark. And what he saw made his heart ache with unmistakable relief.

He slowed down to a quick walk and looked out of the window beside him. Way, way down below he could see the Forbidden Forest, a vast ocean of trees stretching out into infinity, it seemed. The giant trees seemed small from all the way up here, and Harry gulped at the prospect of his upcoming plan. But the prowler of the night had - like him - followed the cry of Ron, and Harry could hear him getting closer and closer. So Harry counted the windows, found the right one, and aimed his wand.

_Reducto!_ Harry thought, and was rewarded with a bust of blue light from the tip of his wand. It streaked through the darkened corridor and struck true, splintering the window to pieces.

Now I must hurry, Harry thought, setting in a run for his life again. Behind him, he heard rapid footsteps come ever nearer. So near he could almost feel it. And not for the first time that night he cursed himself for lending his Invisibility Cloak to Fred. But now that didn't matter, because just as the person hunting him turned the corner and came to the corridor, Harry reached the window... and jumped out. Descending from one of the highest corridors of Hogwarts...

Whilst he descended, Harry thought of how much difficult life had gotten for him ever since the announcements of the Champions in the Triwizard Tournament. Yeah, he decided as darkness seemed to beset him on all sides, it was that Tournament's stupid fault.

* * *

><p><em>A couple of weeks earlier...<em>

The door creaked ominously in the dark ahead of him, soft voices spoke in hissed breaths amongst each other, and Harry had the sense of déjà vu. Like he had been here before, like he had done it all before.

"My Lord," a voice said from behind the creaking door, "how long are we going to stay here?"

"A week," a cold voice answered, and Harry shivered. Like he always did. "Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the First Task is over. Dumbledore will have the boy well protected at Hogwarts during these events, I'm sure."

"Couldn't we just... use... another wizard, my Lord?" the other voice said hesitatingly, undisguised fear within it. "Surely, another wizard would produce the same results."

"No, Wormtail," the cold voice replied, and Wormtail whimpered much like Harry just did. "No, it must be Harry Potter. He is the only one that matters."

A slight pause followed in the wake of the cold voice - and then Wormtail spoke, rushing and stumbling on the words like he was afraid he'd loose his nerve if he didn't hurry up and spoke them. "But wouldn't - wouldn't it ease our quarrel if we just choose another wizard? And wouldn't it hasten your return to full strength?"

"Enough with this nonsense!" The cold voice murmured softly, but there was a certain tone of menace that went unmistakable in its nature. Wormtail had spoken out of his status. "Only Harry Potter can suffice my needs."

"Can you at least tell me how you will get him, my Lord?" Wormtail begged. "Because I fail to understand."

"It is in your nature not to understand, Wormtail," said the voice, and wicked amusement shone through the tone of the voice now. The coldness, however, remained the same. "But I shall strive to explain myself again. I have a man in their midst, and when the time comes - he will bring me Harry Potter. And Harry Potter... shall be mine!"

* * *

><p>Harry woke with a start, his breath quickened and his chest rising.<p>

He blinked blearily against the darkness of his bed curtains, and sat up. Darkness, Harry thought, swinging his feet out of the bed. Darkness meant it was still night. Fuck, those dreams were getting out of hand. Harry could barely remember the last night he had had a decent session of sleep without getting woken up in the middle of the night by visions. And they _were_ visions, no matter how much Ron or Dumbledore or anyone might try to convince him otherwise.

No dream had ever seemed so real.

He looked at the clock on his bedside table. _03:23_, it said. Which meant plenty of time, until breakfast would start in the Great Hall. Harry wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and go back to dreamland, but he knew that there'd be no more sleep for him tonight. So he rose from his bed, and set about to find his clothes.

A couple of minutes later, with clothes in place and cloak whipped round his form, he grabbed his wand from under his pillow, swung his bag over his shoulder, and went to the stairs in the hunt for an empty classroom. Shouldn't be too hard when everybody else were asleep, should it?

He crossed the common room, blessedly full of empty seats and undisturbed ambience. Before opening the Portrait and stepping out into the rest of Hogwarts, however, he let himself be consumed by his Invisibility Cloak, then opened the portrait of the Fat Lady and disappeared into the corridors of Hogwarts.

He had a spell to master and some hours to kill.

But unfortunately a little over three hours later, Harry had to quit his endeavours, without any progress in mastering the spell. It was supposed to be one of the easier ones, too, he thought. Granted, it was a bit over his year's usual stuff, but that had never stopped Harry before. Maybe he'd have to read the theory of it in one of his books. Oh, just the thought of it made him nauseated.

But even with his failure chiefly in mind, he still left the classroom of Charms in high spirits, with a stupid grin firmly on his face, as he slipped away unnoticed. Incidentally charms was the first thing on his schedule of the day, and for some reason he thought it was going to be a funny one. At least for him it was - and Ron would no doubt find it amusing, as well. It was funny how blowing things up and leaving them in tatters could make your mood soar, when you failed to master a simple spell. The mind could be a place of simple pleasures sometimes, he supposed.

He turned right and found himself onto a corridor a little more crowded, bleary-eyed kids groaning their morning protests and empty stomachs growling for something edible. The Patil twins, however, Harry found to be rather bewitching on this fine morning, when they came walking amongst the rest of the students. They were in the midst of a deep and soft conversation with each other, it seemed.

Harry, though he'd never outright admit it to Ron, actually quite liked Parvati Patil. Thus he thought she'd give him her usual warm greeting. He was disappointed. Only a hint of a nod in his general direction - the briefest of acknowledgments, really - and they continued onwards.

Harry shrugged. No matter. Maybe they were busy. He started walking down the corridor again, lost, as he often was these days, in his own thoughts. The dreams - _visions_ - weighted heavily upon his mind. Something just rubbed him the wrong way about it all. Beyond the obvious, that is. Something seemed off, both with him after having suffered them, and with the visions themselves. They changed! Some things stayed the same, of course the location, the individuals, and other minor things. It was always night in the dream. But the dialogue was seldom identical to the last – there were always these little differences that stood out.

In the beginning, Voldemort had been talking about the World Cup in the summer, that he couldn't commence his plans, until after the World Cup. Now he couldn't commence his plans, until after the First Task, it seemed.

Harry would have dismissed them as the crazy dreams of a disturbed teenager, whose dangerous way of life had finally gotten to him and broken his psyche. Expect there were so fucking _real_.

No matter. It would have to wait to later, when he could have a talk with Dumbledore about it.

However, Harry reasoned, the meeting with the Patil twins had been good for something. It had jarred Harry's memory of other plans of the future.

"Status report," Harry murmured, pushing a fifth year aside. The fifth year grunted in annoyance, turned about on the spot with clear intentions of scolding the idiot who had pushed him. Then he saw Harry. And though Harry was half a head short of the older guy, the fifth year's retort died upon his lips.

"Potter?" the boy said, and Harry noticed he was a Hufflepuff. If only he could remember his name. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing." Harry frowned in thought. Status report... "Have you seen the Weasley twins?"

"They are a part of your goddamn House, Potter," the boy said, and his tone of voice hid nothing of his displeasure, which seemed just a little out of place to Harry. He hadn't pushed him _that_ hard. "How did you _not_ see them?"

Harry sighed. People like this guy really seemed to bother him these days. Bother him a lot. No matter. "Have you seen them?" he asked again.

"Yeah. In the Great Hall. At your table." The boy's eyes seemingly instinctually found a little girl – no more than a first year, Harry guessed – sitting in an alcove by a window. Harry followed his look and recognized the girl as she who had been caught in the middle of Harry's duel with Draco last week. Caught in the crossfire. She didn't have any wounds or markings now, but Harry remembered the nasty, purple wound growing on her abdomen... A lance of discomfort shot up through his spine, and he turned back to the boy at hand.

"Now," the boy continued, "go away, Potter."

Harry wrought his face in an expression of benign interests. "You have something against me, don't you?" The boy said nothing, and Harry soldiered onwards. "All right. Be that way. I'll move along. Ah - which way is the Great Hall again?"

"I said, piss off!"

"Now - see, that's incorrect, my friend," Harry said, and lost his mask of benign interests, replaced by a grin of pure amusement. "You said, _go away_. The difference may not seem all that vast, but..." Harry trailed off, tilting his head. "The devil's in the details, you know."

Harry made his escape before the Hufflepuff would blow up on him, slipping into the Great Hall relatively unnoticed for his standards. The Hall was buzzing with the usual rhythm of breakfast, and Harry went to his usual spot, being careful not to get caught staring too much at the blonde girl from Beauxbatons sitting at the Ravenclaw table.

"That girl, Ron - it's crazy," Harry said, slumping down in the seat beside him, when he arrived.

"Good morning to you, too, mate," Ron grumbled, not looking up from the piece of paper cupped in his hands like it was a most delicate thing.

Harry, puzzled by Ron's lack of interest in the French girl, looked to Dean, who sat across from them, for answers. He, however, only shook his head, and mouthed something Harry wasn't really sure what meant.

"Ah, what's _that_, mate?" Harry asked, snatching the paper out of Ron's hand before he could remove it.

"Oi!" Ron cried, outraged. He reached for the paper, but Harry scooped away from him, and towards the lap of Hermione Granger, who then tried to push him back to Ron, not wanting to be part of their morning fight. "Give that back, you bastard!"

Harry let Ron take it on the third try, after he had seen what it contained. Oh. Shit. No matter, there was nothing to do about it for now. He'd discuss it with Ron later. When they were in private.

"You know, I went on a stroll this morning," Harry began, talking to the group around him, "and I bumped into this guy - a Hufflepuff." Harry turned and looked at the Hufflepuff table over his shoulder. Then he saw the guy and pointed. "Him. Sitting beside Diggory. Do any of you know him from someplace?"

"Of course, Harry..." Hermione answered at once, exaggerated by Harry's ability to forget the names of his fellow students, then hesitated, biting her lower lip in distress. "That's Dave McNair. Older brother to Claudia McNair. You know... the girl that was caught in the crossfire of your duel last week?"

Harry blinked, and felt that same cold lance of guilt settle in the pit of his stomach. "Oh. That explains a lot."

Conversations evened out, and Harry settled down to eat. But when he had filled his plate with eggs and bacon, he found his hunger for food escaping him, as it always did after a night invaded by dreams and visions of Voldemort. There was nothing to it; he had other endeavours at hand this morning anyway.

Harry rose, his plate lying forgotten. "Come on, Ron," he said, searching up and down the table for two identical heads of red. He found the twins sitting by themselves closest of all to the teachers' table. "I wanna talk to you brothers."

"Now?" Ron groaned, his voice muffled by the substantial amount of food within it. He swallowed loudly. "But I'm not done eating."

Harry bent down by his ear, as Hermione grossed- "That's disgusting," -and said, "Do you want the money, or not? If we are to do this, then we must act now. Whist there is still a profit to be made."

"All right, all right, all right," Ron groaned. "I'm coming, I'm coming - but I'm takin' my food with me."

Hermione shot Harry and Ron a suspicious look over her shoulder as they marched right by her, but she didn't say anything. Which Harry thought was a blessing.

"What have you been up to?" Ron asked behind him as they walked. "When I woke up, your bed was empty."

"Just practicing spells again. Couldn't sleep." Harry looked over his shoulder. "You making a habit of checking my bed?"

Ron ignored his quip. "Oh." Ron looked nauseated. "Was it… You Know Who again?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Ah - so what spell did you practice?" Ron asked, and Harry thanked him in his mind for the not-so-subtle change of subject.

"The Water-Making-Spell," Harry answered. "Aguamenti is its incantation. Treacherous little bugger, which is apparently much more complex than it initially appears."

"Which course is it?" Ron asked.

"Sixth year," Harry said, and Ron whistled impressively.

"Still don't know why you bother with it, mate," Ron said as they got within hearing distance of the twins. "It's still years away."

Harry shrugged. "The truth is, as you know, I like it. I'm good at it."

"That's the understatement of the day."

They didn't get to talk anymore between themselves; they had reached Fred and George.

"How are my brave foot-soldiers doing this fine morning?" Harry said loudly as he sat down next to George. "Making a profit, I hope. Stirring in the cauldron."

"All of the above," Fred said as Ron went around the table and sat down next to him.

"Over half of Hogwarts have bets on this thing," said George. "Which can be either really good or really fucking bad."

"Option one and three will make us a sizable profit," Fred continued.

"Whereas option two and four will cost us a substantial amount of money," George ended. "It is quite the risk we are taking here, Harry," he said, handing him a piece of paper. "Here, have a look."

"What's this?" Harry asked, folding it open. Fred's - or was that George's? - scribbled words filled out most of the parchment.

"That's the statistics." Fred leaned in over the table and pointed on the paper in Harry's hand. "This is the only section of real interest, I guess."

"I see." Harry drew a hand over his mouth in thought as he studied the paper through the lens of his glasses. "And number one and… ah…"

"Three," George supplied helpfully.

"One and three makes profit, then?" Harry asked, looking between them. "And two and four will cost us money."

"Money, Harry," Ron said. "Money that we don't have any of."

"No matter," Harry said. "If luck is not on our side, then I must simply pay out of my own pocket." He frowned. "Or vault, that is."

"But you won't be able to get inside your vault, until Christmas, right?" Ron said, frowning worriedly. "That's months away. If we end up owing almost the whole school money, and we have nothing to pay them with - well, I guess we won't be winning any 'most popular contest' this year."

"Who cares," Fred said, grinning. "Those contests are obviously fixed, anyway."

"What contests?" George asked. "What the fuck have you been sniffing this time?"

"Harry, I think." Fred grinned. "Notice the smell of perfume, George?"

George put his nose to Harry's armpit, much to Harry's indignation. "Oh!" he cried. "That does smell rather fetching, if I do say so myself. Got a new bird landing in your nest in the near future, Harry?"

"Wouldn't that be the first bird, George?" Fred said. "Not a _new_ one, the first one. The devil is, after all, in the detail."

The devil in the detail, Harry thought, and was reminded of the boy and the broken little sister. He shook his head. "All right, can we get back on track? Thank you." Harry tried to hide his blush of embarrassment and shame, and moved onwards. "If we lose and have to pay our debt, people will grant us some leeway, I'm sure. We will have until after Christmas, at least. That's not the major issue right now." He put the paper down on the table and pointed sharply to the section of interest. "What the fuck does those numbers even mean?"

"Well," George began; looking over Harry's shoulder on what Harry was pointing at. "That's just the bets."

"I know, I know." Harry waved him away, though not unkindly. "Which is which? Which number is which bet?"

"Oh." A light of understanding appeared in Fred's eyes. "Number one is Angelina becomes Champion - that one's the best for us. She'll earn us the most." Fred blinked, then widened his eyes dramatically. "Does that make her sound like a prostitute of ours? No, right? That's just me, yeah?"

"Number two?" Harry said, and interrupted Fred, rubbing his eyes. "That's the one on the guy from Slytherin, right? What's his name again?"

"Jack Carter, yes." Ron nodded. "We will loose money if he's selected." Ron took the paper out of Harry's hand and looked it over. "He's not the worst of them, though - that's number four."

"Which is the miscellaneous," George said. "All of the other seventh years, who have put their name in the Goblet. That one would be pretty bad for us. Most of our customers chose that one. I knew we shouldn't have had that one be a part of the bet."

"Nobody would have participated if that wasn't on the menu, though," Harry reasoned. "It's a calculated risk. All right - only the third option left. That must be Cedric Diggory, right?"

"Right." Fred nodded. "He will earn us a very small amount of money, but we will earn something nonetheless. It would be a fine start to the year."

"Okay. Right." Harry stood and looked at his wristwatch. "Time is short. We will see what happens tonight, then. Remember, guys, place yourself close to the entrance. You know, in case it is that Slytherin bloke who gets chosen. Hopefully the Goblet will take the character of the Champion into account."

"Wait," Ron said, standing up, as well. "Place us by the exit? I thought you said it would be fine."

"It will. Definitely." Harry nodded. "After I've had a chat with them, that is. They will go bonkers at first. And I don't want to get caught inside the Great Hall with them all." When Ron didn't get the joke, Harry sighed. "Relax, Ron - it's a joke. They wouldn't be expecting their winnings so soon, and they wouldn't know if it was bad for us."

* * *

><p>Later that day, with Charms over with, and on the way to Potions, Harry found a decrease in his happiness. Turn out that Flitwick had no problems restoring the state of his classroom back to order. He even had the audacity to laugh at it. <em>Laugh<em>! He didn't even ask or wonder who might have done it.

"So, Harry..." Ron began, almost tauntingly. "Have you done your homework this time?"

"Nope," Harry said indifferently.

"You know Snape is going to be pissed."

"Yup," Harry said.

"You're dead. You are actually dead. Well, it was nice knowing you." Ron clapped him on his shoulder. "Can I get your heritage? When you are gone, I mean?"

"Ha-bloody-ha."

"You always end up costing us points in Snape's class, Harry," Hermione joined in from the side, coming up beside them from behind. "Always. Why not simply do your homework?"

"Oi!" Ron said, jumping a little. "How long have you been there?"

Harry and Hermione both ignored him. "You know that no matter how prepared or swash-buckling awesome I perform in his classes," Harry said, looking at Hermione, "the man will always fuck me. I think it's some kind of law. The laws of Hogwarts, you know?"

Ron snorted. "Seriously bad mental image, mate."

Harry laughed, then focused on Hermione. "No, really, Hermione – I thought this would delight you, which is part of the reason why I never prepare for Potions."

Hermione narrowed her eyes in a suspicious manner. Harry thought it moderately cute. He squashed that thought as unimportant immediately. "What are you on about, Harry?" she asked.

"I thought it would make you happy, you know, if you at least outperformed me in one class, yeah? Then you don't have to be all competitive all the time, and only to end up losing anyway."

Hermione sighed. "If only your talent for potion was as vast as your head, Harry Potter, then there would never be any doubt about who was going to win the House Cup."

Harry and Ron shared looks with raised eyebrows, then Ron looked at Hermione. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Hermione, but didn't we win the cup last year – with Harry losing a lotta points, I might add."

She ignored Ron's question like it was merely a breath of wind in an autumn afternoon, and sped away ahead of them. Like she couldn't wait for Snape's class to begin.

Ron, when Hermione was well out of hearing distance, turned to Harry. "You know, she's kinda right. You really are fucked this time."

"Perhaps." Harry shrugged. "Though if I am fucked, I hope it is gonna be by that girl from Beauxbatons."

Ron laughed. "Not a chance, mate. You with her wouldn't happen even if you grew two feet and wasn't such a pussy-ass thin little fuck."

"Thanks, mate," Harry said sarcastically. "Don't restrain yourself on my account. It really helps ease the burden."

"Oh, you know I love you, mate."

Harry rolled his eyes, though he grinned. "Right back at you."

Ron pouted his lips and made fake kissing sounds at Harry. Harry laughed at his antics, but looked around nonetheless. Even though it was only for fun, it wouldn't do if anyone saw them do it. Oh, the rumours and scandals, Harry thought. It would be the end of him. And then he certainly wouldn't have a chance with that French girl. Not that he had a chance anyway, but that was the funny part of dreams, right? Within dreams anything could become.

What was her name again?

"What was her name again?" Harry wondered aloud.

"Who?" Ron asked, and stopped laughing.

"The girl, Ron – from Beauxbatons?"

"Oh. Ah – Fleur something, I think. I think Fred said her name was something with Fleur."

"That's right," Harry said, snapping his fingers at him. "Fleur Delacour. She's seriously something else, though."

"Yeah," Ron answered, and put on a look of wonder Harry thought was somewhat overdramatized – even though it didn't seem like Ron was actually faking it. "She _is_ something else. She has this aura about her, you know? Like, when you get to close to her, you can't find your brain, or something?"

Harry laughed. "You've never been able to find your brain, mate."

"Oi, shut up," Ron said, and rolled his eyes. "Fucking cunt." Ron paused in thought. "Ah – mate, you think she might be a Veela?"

Harry didn't get to answer, for they entered Snape's classroom, and their soft bickering and pondering amongst themselves came to an abrupt end. They found their usual seat near the back of the room, at the desk across from Hermione and Neville. The class was rather silent, everyone waiting for Snape to arrive.

They didn't wait for long.

When Harry had barely sat down, Snape swept into the room, cloak bellowing impressively behind him. He waved his wand in the general direction of the door, and it closed and locked with a snap. Harry often compared having Potions with going to Azkaban. When the bars slammed shut, when the walls closed in on you, then you knew you were caught, then you knew that you were on your own, that all you had left was to endure your time with the monster prowling the darkness.

Harry shivered despite himself. Snape would probably find it highly amusing if he knew Harry compared him with a Dementor.

He, Harry, had been feeling rather confident going in. But now, sitting at the back of the room, waiting for Snape to ask for their assignments, he only felt the cold sweat of fear running down his neck. The uncertainty of the future and the certainty that he had no way of escaping it.

Blessedly - miraculously - Snape didn't ask for any assignments, and Ron almost exhaled a breath of disappointment, as Snape turned to the board and swept his wand over it, creating writings with nothing but his wand and thoughts.

As Harry prepared his equipment (still half-holding his breath in fear of the damn future), he turned to Ron. "You were waiting for me to get in trouble, weren't you? Hoping for it, even?" he said accusingly.

"Of course not," Ron lied, grinning. "That would be very unbecoming of me, as your friend."

"Bitch..." Harry murmured.

"Know what?" Ron said, leaning forward. "I don't think he has forgotten or post pointed it any damn bit. I think he knows you haven't done it - I mean, of course he knows you haven't done it; you never do 'em! He's just waiting to collect them, so that he can see you sweat for a while."

Harry looked between Ron and Snape. Snape hadn't glanced at him even once, which was highly unusual. Usually at this time Harry would have had his first bout with him.

"Remind me, Ron," Harry began, "why am I friends with you again?"

"Put away..." Snape's silky voice reached them from afar, "your wands and listen. This class might determine who gets to take their O.W.L's next year."

Usually, a statement such as this one required a lot of buzzing of the students. Not in a class with Severus Snape as the teacher, however. The class kept dead silent. Like dogs waiting to get told what to do next. They were probably lower in Snape's eyes, Harry pondered, than the lowest of all dogs.

"He cannot do that, can he?" Ron asked in a whisper-thin voice uneasily, all his bravado of before lying forgotten in the past. "I mean, failing us just on a single class - it's unprecedented, that's what it is!"

Harry shrugged, not saying a thing, and slipped his wand up his sleeve. He would be caught dead if he ever laid down his wand completely again. Not after the Chamber of Secrets.

"Continuing our lesson from last time, assuming any of you actually still remember it," Snape said. "You will open your books and turn to page-"

"Excuse me, Professor," Draco Malfoy drawled, throwing a not-so-subtle look Harry's way, "but isn't today the day we should turn in our assignment on the uses of the Wit-Sharpening Potion?"

Ron leaned over quickly. "Whoever came up with that name certainly didn't use the potion on themselves."

Harry, however, paid Ron little mind. For Snape, who had seemed a tad irritated by the interruption of Malfoy, now gladly seized the opportunity.

"Ah - yes," he said softly, and though it was a mere whisper it carried itself strongly back to Harry in the back of the room. "The assignment. How foolish of me to forget that."

They played it out almost like they had planned for it all along. It wouldn't have surprised Harry had that been the case.

Harry sat uncomfortable in his seat, like it was getting smaller and smaller and he was getting bigger and bigger. Like the whole class would only be able to see him if they turned to look. Ron, too sitting at the edge of his seat, looked caught between giddiness and anxiety, like he was unsure if he should be the good supportive friend, or just a plain asshole. Since he could do nothing to help Harry, he'd probably just be an ass about it. That was what Harry would have done anyway.

"Potter!" Snape said suddenly, and Harry jumped despite knowing that it was coming. "Have you done your homework?"

Harry forced himself not to swallow thickly, and continued on the path he had planned to take weeks ago, when they first got the assignment. "Actually, sir - I found myself incapable of doing the assignment," Harry said with utmost sincerity in his voice.

"Is that so, Potter?" Snape said softly, and his lips curled into something between a sneer and a wicked smile of cruel amusement. "You don't say. Why, do tell, were you unable to accomplish this assignment, as well?"

"Glad you should ask, sir," Harry said earnestly, nodding vigorously, and completely aware of the unmistakable growing look of horror upon Ron's face. "You see, from the way you vocalized the announcement, I thought that we'd have to write it from a personal perspective. You know, analyse the effects the potion has on one self." Harry strove to stay in character and not break his façade, but the grin behind the façade was pushing so very hard. "And well – when I tested the potion upon myself, I found that the effects it had upon my wit were slim to none. So based on the facts given, I could only conclude that my wit couldn't be maximized any further by the potion, and thus I had nothing to write about." Now Harry was smiling, though for some reason Ron and especially Hermione and Neville looked on the verge of tears with grieve. "So there you have it. No effects, nothing to write about, no assignment."

Snape's lips had definitely curled into a sneer. A sneer of menace unbound in its vastness.

"Detention, Potter," he said softly, and the nature of his anger was revealed in the fiery hatred within his eyes. "And fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor."

The smile dissolved away from Harry's face, replaced with his own unmistakable look of hatred. "Too bad, Snape," Harry began coolly, and really he wanted to stop, and the tugging on his sleeve by Ron told him that he now wanted him to stop, as well. But something within him, call it pride, call it a sense of self-righteousness, demanded that he didn't back down from Snape. "Too bad that Gryffindor only has forty points so far, huh?"

"And now you have lost them everything, Potter." Snape smiled. It didn't touch his eyes. It barely even touched his mouth. "You have lost them everything."

And, indeed, that he had.

* * *

><p>After the class of uselessness and bitter goading ended, Harry left the classroom, high spots of red on his cheeks. High spots of pure anger, <em>fellas<em>. He spared a look back to see if Ron was with him, which he was, and then he followed the rest of the class and spilled out onto the corridor, heading towards the Great Hall and lunch. Maybe some food would do him some good, though he still felt no real hunger.

"You are fucking crazy," Ron was saying. "You know that, right? Wickedly awesome, but damn crazy."

"Yeah," Harry murmured. He wasn't really paying all that much attention to Ron. Up ahead of him and Ron, beyond the group of Gryffindors, Malfoy was walking with the rest of the Slytherins. Up ahead walked the slimy bugger who had started the bout with Snape. The wand of Phoenix within the sleeve of Harry's cloak seemed to come alive, seemed to sense the eager hatred within its master.

Ron followed Harry's look, and Harry noticed a cloud of misery pass over his face, when he saw what Harry was looking at. "Oh, let it go, Harry," he said. "You're in enough trouble as it is."

Harry threw Ron a surprised look. "Should I just let him get away with it?" he asked. "Since when have you become the sensible, irrational of us?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying, but maybe now isn't the best of times, yeah?" Ron asked. "And one of us has to think, right?" He laughed, and then it kind of trailed off into nothing. Like he realized the foolishness of his words. "Right…"

"Then when the fuck is the right time?" Harry cried, looking around. They were walking alone with the class in the corridor, which seldom happened at Hogwarts. "It doesn't get anymore ideal than this."

"Snape could be around," Ron muttered, but it was only a half-effort. "If he sees you-"

"If he sees me, he will only take more points from Gryffindor. Oh wait! There isn't any point left to take!" Harry cried in mock-realization. Ron chuckled. "Oh, I know, then he will simply give me more detention. Then he can have me all to himself for the rest of the year."

"What's with you and bad mental images today?" Ron said, grimacing. "I seriously don't want to picture all the things your mind cook up with Snape."

"Shut up." Harry grinned, and - with a grand flourish of his wrist - drew his wand from within his sleeve. "Coming?"

"Do I have a choice in the matter?"

"No."

"Great," Ron uttered. "Are you trying the new one this time?"

Harry nodded, a smile of secrecy on his face. "Yeah – it is _horrendously_ bad, but it does have its uses."

Harry hastened his steps, parting the group of Gryffindors that walked a couple of steps behind the Slytherins. Hermione's eyes widened as she saw the look in Harry's eyes. She knew that look, as did the rest of the Gryffindors. Which was why they hastened their steps, as well, to see the madness that cometh.

"Harry..." Hermione uttered with a cautious touch of fear. "Please..."

Harry ignored her. Continuing onwards past the head of the Gryffindor group. Malfoy, who lingered in the back of the Slytherin group, was only a few paces away now.

Harry raised his wand towards Malfoy's back. This was it.

Game on.

A cry of "_Expelliarmus!_" broke the peace of the corridor. Harry, on his guard, twirled about on the spot, dodging the jet of light that swept right by him and into a Slytherin that wasn't as prepared. Harry stopped his body spinning round and his eyes scanned the Gryffindors, searching for the culprit, and found the one with the wand raised. His eyes widened in indisputable surprise, when he saw whom it was.

Hermione, her face caught between horror and justification, raised her wand anew. It wavered slightly, however, as Harry's green eyes turned cold on her. A girl from within the Slytherin group screamed in pure fright - probably the one who had gotten knocked down by Hermione's spell, Harry reasoned - and Harry knew he had to act fast if he were to have his vengeance undisturbed.

He swished his wand through the air, and non-verbally conjured his spell against Hermione. Hermione, though no slouch with a wand, gasped as her wand was forced from her hand. It clattered to the floor a second later, though where Harry didn't see, because he was already turning on the spot again, coming face to face with Malfoy - his prey of the day.

Malfoy was staring dumbfounded on the happenings. But, as Harry turned on him, he reached into his cloak and drew his own wand, wide-eyed with adrenaline and pure fear. Too late. Harry had already swept his wand in his general direction, muttering "_Expelliarmus_," in a sharp breath. Non-verbal spells, whilst he was good at them, still proved to be a challenge, when he had to think of too many things at once.

Draco, however, was seldom a challenge, and this time proved to be no different as the wand tore itself free of his grasp, sailed through the air of the corridor, and landed neatly in Harry's outstretched hand.

Nervous laughter from the Gryffindors aroused softly, whereas the Slytherins began muttering faintly amongst themselves. All of them, Harry thought, wondering if they should challenge him. Harry decided to soldier onwards before they came to some sort of decision.

"You think you got it back there?" Harry asked over his shoulder to Ron, a potent mixture of adrenaline and anger seething into his voice. It sounded rather confident, something that Harry didn't really feel.

"What?" Ron asked, staring awed at the wand in Harry's hand. No matter how many times he saw Harry duel, it still never ceased to amaze him."

"You know what!" Harry cried, almost livid with sheer excitement. "You let her attack my back!"

"How was I supposed to know she'd start slicing spells at you?" Ron cried - with clear indignation. "She's bloody mental, that one!"

"No matter," Harry said, turning his eyes to and fro in the corridor. When he found what he was looking for - greatly helped by Hermione, who was trying to itch closer to the object discreetly - he waved his wand at it and ended with a twirl back at himself. The wand of Hermione Granger sprung up like strings was attached to it and sailed to Harry's waiting hand, joining Draco's wand.

"You can't do that!" Hermione cried out, though she seemed smote with nervousness.

Harry threw her a look as if to ask if she was insane. "Are you insane?" he asked, if she didn't catch the look. "You attacked me! No - not now," he added, when he saw her about to retort. Then he turned to Malfoy. "Easy as always, eh, Malfoy? Only big whenever a teacher is around."

"At least I know how to do a fucking school assignment!" Draco sneered with contempt. "All you ever amount to involves breaking stuff and strike people in the back."

Harry raised his wand anew. A red angry light flared from the tip.

Ron gasped, recognizing the spell, recognizing the _moment_. "No, Harry - that's a cutting spell! It will cut him in half!"

"Ah - that depends on where I hit him, doesn't it?" Harry smiled dismissively; it was a smile of cruel amusement, a smile that chilled Malfoy's blood, Harry thought, if judged by the unnatural paleness of his skin. "As far as I can see here, Malfoy, you have only three options. All of which are humiliating to you, but that's what it is. Beggars can't be choosers, right? Number one of your choices: you can try your luck and endure the pain of my curse. And then – oh relax, of course you'll survive; I'm very precise – and then you can tell on me to the teachers and they'd happily believe you. Number two: you can tell them I disarmed you with a single spell and actually stand the humiliating of admitting it. Number three – and this is the one I believe you should take: you can go now, and I promise you to return your wand in the Great Hall. No pains done. No want need know."

Which, of course, was a lie. Because by lunch the next day, everybody would know (yes, even the teachers) that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had gotten into a fight. Again. And Malfoy had been humiliated. Again. Rumours, of course, which were all started by the Weasley twins. Or was it another Gryffindor? No one knew, and after a couple of hours, after everybody had told everybody, nobody remembered who started the rumour, only what the rumour was about.

Malfoy looked to be thinking it over, though he clearly did not like the options available to him. "You promise to return my wand?"

Harry nodded. "I promise. You have my word." Harry frowned. "Or rather, you have Ron's word, because my word is worth nothing to you, right? Or are blood traitors just as bad? I'm a little confused, I admit."

Draco sneered. "This will not be forgotten, Potter," he said, and of that he was quite right, Harry thought. "I promise you that." Then he swept around and stalked away. The Slytherins threw Harry odd, angry looks, but followed him at last.

No one did him anything.

"Harry! I _cannot_ believe you!" Hermione cried, when the last Slytherin had turned the corner and left the corridor. "You could have created severe damage with that kind of spell. _Lasting_ damage! What would you have done if something had gone wrong, and you had ended up slicing through his _neck_?"

"Hermione," Harry said softly, lowering his wand, though the angry red light still shone from the tip, "I had it under control."

"Your ego knows no bounds, Harry," she said with an almost brisk certainty, like nothing could persuade her otherwise. "You could have really hurt him."

"Nah, the most damage I'd done would be a singed eyebrow or something," Harry said, raising his wand towards the ceiling and releasing his spell. Small streaks of red and green fireworks slipped out of his wand and died almost instantly. A spell of his own making – his first and only actually – which was pretty much useless and had gone terrible wrong, but had the nice effect of looking intimidating, when it was but a bright flare on the tip of his wand.

"See?" Harry said, a smile – which at last touched his eyes – adorned his face, and then the last light died out above him. "Just a crazy spell of nothin', sweetheart."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Done with the first chapter of this new story. I have most of the next few ones planned out. Only have to write them. Next chapter up from my side, however, will probably be on my other story on this sight.<em>**

**_So… if you are here with me still – thank you for reading, and hopefully you enjoyed it enough to come back and read the next._**

**_- Stjernefald _**


	2. Champions Are Forged in Flames

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything related to Harry Potter.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two - Champions Are Forged in Flames<strong>

Some time after the insignificant dispute with Malfoy, which had resolved some of Harry's wrath, he found that he didn't really want to go to the feast later on that evening. He had a bad feeling about it. Like a dark spell rested upon the very name of the Tournament. Which, Harry thought, might be the very fact of the matter. People died in that tournament, after all. Or so he had heard. Surely, something truly astonishing was bound to happen.

Harry sighed; he got nauseated with lances of cold fear just thinking about it. All the bloodshed of the past, all the fighting for others entertainment - it reminded him of Riddle's cold laugh vibrating of the walls in the Chambers of Secrets, whilst he scrambled and shambled for survival on the cold, wet tile floor. But it was not _that_ which lied the heaviest upon his mind on that cold evening. It wasn't the return of Sirius Black, either, though that did cost him a fair amount of restless nights.

No, it was Ron, and Ron's terrible... _predicament_.

Ron had failed Charms for the second time that year. Harry couldn't fathom how, seeing as how Charms was so bloody easy, but then again Ron never failed Potions. That Harry did. That Harry did a lot. To be fair to himself, Harry reasoned that he probably wouldn't fail the class as much if it had been any other teacher in the world who taught that class.

But Ron needed his help, and his help he would receive. Maybe he ought to take Ron with him the next time he went off to practice. Yeah, Harry thought, he'd do just that.

And he was lying to himself, as well, for of course Sirius had seized hold of his mind the moment he had decided to step back upon British soil. Seized hold and never let go again. Sirius had said in one of his letters not to worry, which only meant Harry worried all the more. Sirius might be convinced that nobody could catch him, but Harry wasn't so sure.

Sleepless nights were not an uncommon theme for Harry these days. He had... hobbies he could turn to, however, to lessen the feeling of everlasting weariness greatly. He had his practices with himself (and with Ron in the future, he supposed) in abandoned classrooms. Sometimes over the last few years those self-taught spells had saved his life, which they might do again in the future, but these days they saved something far more vital…

Without those hours of practice, sometimes out into the lonely hours of the night, he would have gone mad. Mad with worry, mad with restlessness... mad with _loneliness_. Even admitting that to himself made him feel all kinds of pathetic, like admitting a weakness to an age-old enemy.

The enemy within.

The most fearsome enemy of life. The enemy of doubt, of love, of hate, and of regrets. Harry, at aged fourteen, knew the scars of regrets well. More than most, he reckoned. More than most…

Then there was his business with Ron and the twins. Or whatever it was. His law-breaking. He didn't know if it would find its way back to him should the twins be found out; he had a good feeling it wouldn't. When Harry first approached Ron, George, and Fred with the idea of making money on this tournament by setting up a betting round, which would, of course, be frowned upon by the teachers, they had been thrilled by his vision. Fred and George had hailed his mind, praised his craftiness, and sang tunes of his magnificence. Okay, they hadn't done that, but they had been all-in right from the start.

It wasn't until a while later that the obvious question was brought up. Ron posed it. What was in it for he, Harry? What did he stand to gain from making a little Galleon here and there; he had his parents vault, after all. It would sustain him long after he left Hogwarts, if not for the rest of his life, for all Harry knew. Why run the risk of expulsion - which Harry doubted very much would actually befall him, should he be found out, but the chances were there all the same - when he had more money than he could ever use at Hogwarts?

Harry had thought about explaining it to them. For a second. Then he decided - like he did, too, back in first year, when Ron asked him for his sudden interest in duels after the midnight duel with Malfoy (his first proper duel) - that it was too hard to explain, and that Ron and the twins, however great friends they were, probably wouldn't be able to understand. They had never tasted desperation growing up. Not like Harry did. The Weasley family was poor, sure, but Ron, Fred and George had never had to sit within a cupboard, whilst the rest of their remaining family ate dinner Christmas Evening and sang joyous melodies. Like something so preposterous like little Harry Potter couldn't actually exist upon Christmas nights. Ron had never tasted that kind of powerlessness. Fred and George would never be able to comprehend what that kind of loneliness does to a soul. And so they couldn't possible, Harry thought, fathom the sheer rush of adrenaline coursing through Harry's veins, when the little bastard (Draco Malfoy) lied defeated at his feet. Ron could never appreciate the raw feeling of _power_ that Harry had felt in that moment; he didn't know powerlessness like Harry did.

Ron, like normal people, couldn't understand the sheer magnificence of breaking bad, when you didn't have to.

And that was the point. Harry didn't need the money, and for that alone he needed it more than anything. Rules were meant to be broken, limits set to be pushed, and records made to be bested. It was his medicine against the misery of his life, against the worries for Sirius, against the ridicule from Snape, against the visions of Voldemort, and against the treacherous feeling within Harry. The feeling that something awful was bound to happen, and that it would bring about a change in Harry's life so vast… he would never be the same again.

That, along with his practices, was his sanity. His ambitions for the extraordinary, for never succumbing to the sense of powerlessness again.

"Harry, you're mumbling."

"Hmm?" Harry raised his eyes from the book that he had unconsciously found and begun reading, and met Ron's blue eyes. "Oh, sorry. Was I? About what?"

Ron gave a convincing repulsive shudder. "Hermione Granger. Which, seriously, mate, gives me a sick feeling below the belt."

"Oh, come off it - she's not that bad."

"Not that bad?" Ron put on a mask of scandalized shock. "She's a bloody wretched, mental sociopath, with an unhealthy love for books and rules."

"I admit she can be tiresome at times," Harry conceded with a nod, putting the book on his bedside table. "But books does have their purposes, Ron."

"Oh, really?" Ron quirked an eyebrow. "Well, I'm sure Snape'd agree with you. He'll probably tell you more about it tomorrow night."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Harry raised his palm against Ron and lowered his head in a show of defeat, which made Ron fall silent. "Look Ron... listen, I know I'm not... well, I know I'm not the greatest of inspirations when it comes to applying yourself in school, but that notice from Flitwick-"

"So you _did_ see it?" Ron interrupted, and for a moment Harry thought he'd be mad about it, but Ron just seemed to deflate before him. Shrink into a little boy. "Yeah… well… that's messed up, huh?"

The note Ron had been nursing in his hands like it was a ticking bomb in the Great Hall earlier. Harry had barely seen the message it contained, but he had seen enough to get the gist of things.

"Not really, Ron," Harry said, and met his eyes. "You just have to apply yourself. _Trust_ yourself."

Ron quirked his other eyebrows, staring wide-eyed, creating wrinkles in his forehead that made him look older than he was. "Apply myself? Look who's talking."

"Would you stop being so bloody defensive about it?" Harry snapped. "Look, I know I'm not perfect. I know I'm not always so forthright with what I do. I know I don't seem to always apply myself - and sometimes I don't - but that's not an excuse for you, Ron, and it is not an excuse worth not listening to me, when I'm for once actually making a decent amount of sense."

Ron sighed. "You're right. Sorry." He ran a hand though his long, red hair and sat down on his bed, across from Harry. "What do you suggest, then?"

"I don't know, man; I'd just say read your goddamn book and listen to the teachers instructions, and then you'd be fine, but that's not entirely true, is it? That's not enough." Harry shaped his thumb and index finger after the size of his mouth and rubbed the edges of his lips in consideration. "Maybe what you need to do is affix a goal in your mind. You know, something to strive towards."

"And what could that be?" Ron asked, his ears red with obvious discomfort; he didn't like this sort of conversation. "I mean, it's not like I haven't had these thoughts before. Y'know, in my head… yeah…"

Harry sighed. "How the fuck would I know?" he asked, throwing his hands up, though there was no real bite to his tone of voice. Then he snapped his finger at Ron as an idea came to mind. "Wait, that's it! You want to be an Auror, right? Well, to become an Auror, you'd need to pass Charms and get an A on your N.E.W.T," Harry said, voice getting more excited as a brilliant (in his own opinion) plan unfolded in his head. "To even be allowed to study on that level, you need to pass your O.W.L's Charms with at least an E. So there you have it, Ron, that must be your motivational factor."

"An E?" Ron said scathingly. "That's really a great fucking motivation, Harry." He frowned. "And don't you kinda want to become an Auror, as well? To become an Auror, you, too, need to get an A in Potions on N.E.W.T level – and Snape only accepts students with an _O_. An O, Harry! You're about as far away from that as you can possibly be."

"Now, now… don't get personal with this…" Harry leaned back in his bed, giving himself a moment to think. "Well... it's true; I do want to become an Auror, I suppose. But I just cannot see myself taking two more years with Snape after our O.W.L's - even if I should pass the bloody test."

"Why not?" Ron said. "By that time, you'd already survived five? What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could kill me," Harry said, tone completely serious, then he lowered his voice to a whisper of illicit secrets and terrible memories. "Or, even worse… he could get me _expelled_."

Ron laughed, and soon the conversation turned to safer grounds. And not too long after, they left the Dormitory and headed for the Great Hall, Harry's feeling of unease entirely forgotten.

Champions were about to be forged in flames.

* * *

><p>On the way to the Entrance Hall, Harry began to notice the cleansing effect Hogwarts had underwent in the last couple of weeks. It reminded him a bit of aunt Petunia and the change her kitchen underwent before they had guests. Harry guessed it was the same principle here - just on a whole different scale, of course.<p>

Ron noticed it, too. "Not a single time," he was saying, "in the last four years has this corridor been even remotely clean, but now it's like a bloody museum, or something! It's a little weird to actually be able to see the details in some of the paintings. Oh!" he cried, pointing at one of the painting they just crossed. "Harry, did you know the Starving Witches of Hufflepuff were actually dressed in yellow and black - not that there is anything unusual about that, given that that's the colour of their house, but now you can actually see it!"

Harry wanted to say that no fuck would give a shit about some painting. But he would be wrong. Most of the castle's inhabitants seemed fascinated and appreciative of the changes in Hogwarts. Some even stopped to admire the paintings at great lengths. Most of them were pureblood, however, and Harry figured it was because of their childhood, where they'd be told stories of the great castle and all its hidden wonders. That sort of shit, Harry reasoned.

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed, when the Entrance Hall was just in sight. "Have you seen this? Old Minerva Ravenclaw has never looked so alive before!"

"Yeah." Harry nodded, completely serious. "Oh, I'm nursing a semi just looking at it," he said.

"Fuck you," Ron said sourly, almost with a note of disappointment in his voice. "You have no appreciation of history,"

"It's not that I don't appreciate it," Harry said. "I just fail to see its value. History is of little worth. Who gained something by looking back? You should strive to only have the present and future in mind."

Ron stopped admiring the painting and caught up with Harry, who hadn't stopped and beheld its renewed beauty. "I have a strong feeling Dumbledore would find that disagreeable," he said, when he caught up. "He often speaks of the wisdom of hindsight, doesn't he?"

"I just fail to see what that hindsight can be used for, that's all." Harry pushed his way though the buzzing crowd. When they entered the candlelit Great Hall, however, it was even more filled than usual. Every neck was turned - for once - away from Harry. No one noticed his arrival, which actually, to his own befuddlement, infuriated him somewhat. The object, of which everyone's attention was fixated upon, stood before Dumbledore's empty chair at the teacher's table. Like a trophy on a pedestal that said, 'behold and rejoice! O mighty Champion, eternal glory awaits.

Harry had a fleeting thought of regret. Eternal glory, as Dumbledore had putted it, didn't sound all that bad, when he took in the glory of the Goblet, took in the buzzing excitement within the Great Hall. This was an arena where only the strongest of students were tested. He should be amongst those, not trying to make gold on them.

"Hope for Angelina," Fred said, coming from behind them. "The profit we stand to make will be _staggering_ - or at least staggering by our standards."

Harry didn't really care how much money they made as long as they made some. It was more the thrill of the chase than the actual reward. Of course, he wanted it to be a success for them - his pride would demand nothing less.

The feast seemed to stretch on into eternity, however. Harry's attention kept wandering back to the cup, back to the feeling that something was wrong. He wasn't in the mood for some extravagant feast, seeing as they had had one just the last evening, upon the arrival of the other schools. He wasn't, however, the only one getting restless. Everyone around him kept craning their necks to get yet another look of the Goblet, whispering to the person sitting beside them, pointing, and - most important of all, Harry felt - _betting_.

"Last chance," Dean whispered to Seamus, across from Harry. "The twins are calling last betting round. _Now_."

None of them talking about the bet mentioned Harry Potter, which meant the twins hadn't mentioned him. Which meant they had kept their promise. Harry was starting to regret that promise, seeing all the excitement it brought. No matter. He didn't need the attention, he reasoned.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state. And Dumbledore was rising from his seat, quelling the abuzz feeling with a sure raise of his hands. "Well, it seems the Goblet is about to make its decision," he said. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" - he indicated the door behind the staff table - "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

With the basic instructions aside, he drew his wand and swept it in a grand flourish that Harry felt he could never hope to match in its elegance. The whole hall was plunge into a state of semi-darkness; the only light left alive was those that resided inside the carved pumpkins, which only served to heighten the intensity of blue-whiteness of the flames inside the Goblet.

Harry's pulse quickened for no explicable reason.

Everyone was now watching the Goblet like a spell rested upon them.

Fred, sitting a couple of seats from Harry, leaned over the table, muttering, "Come on, come on..." over and over again.

"Any second," Lee Jordan whispered, two seats from Harry, beside Fred, across from George and Angelina.

And then a lash of flames, red-hot and savage, shot out of the Goblet, a charred piece of parchment fluttered impossible with the flames - the whole room gasped, awed by the display of magic.

Dumbledore caught the piece of paper with a firm hand and held it at arms length. "The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum."

Ron nodded beside Harry as if he had known all along. "No doubt about that, was there?" he said. Harry, clapping along with the rest of the hall, nodded. When he had heard that Krum would partake in the tournament, he had insisted that no bets would be made about the other Champions. They knew far too little of the selection, and Krum - at least on paper - seemed like the obvious choice.

When Krum, who took all the applause and cheering with practiced ease, had slouched his way up to the staff table and into the chamber beyond, the hall fell silent again. Everyone was waiting for the Goblet to announce the next Champion of the night.

Flames erupted anew, a charred piece of paper (Harry could still see some of the neat, careful folds the parchment had been folded with), and the whole hall waited with bated breaths as Dumbledore caught it.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore said, folding it open, "is Fleur Delacour!"

The stunning blonde, which Harry and Ron had spent the last twenty-four hours drooling over – along with most of the other boys – rose from the Ravenclaw table with a grace Krum could never hope to match, and swept up quickly between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff table. When she finally disappeared into the chamber beyond the Great Hall, everyone went deadly quiet. Harry's heart felt like it would hammer out of his chest. This was it. This was the moment, where they'd know if they'd earn money, or if they'd be owing their weight in gold.

The Goblet of Fire turned red once again. Harry gulped audibly, Ron shook beside him, and a great tongue of flames sprouted into the air, carrying with it a piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts champion," Dumbledore called, when he caught the note, "is Cedric Diggory!"

Harry gave a sigh of relief, whilst Ron said loudly, "No!" The cheering seemed to be almost capable of lifting the roof of the Great Hall. It didn't seem to know an end. In fact, it was, for obvious reasons, the loudest and longest cheer of the three. And Cedric Diggory stood in the centre of all the attention, soaking it all up as the git he was in the eyes of Ron and Harry.

"That's all right," Fred was saying to George and Lee Jordan. "That's a profit."

"Too bad, Angelina," Lee Jordan said, clapping her on her shoulder. "I really thought it'd be you."

"Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real-"

Harry didn't hear anymore. He wasn't really interested by the speech of tolerance, understanding, and support. This was only the beginning. Now, the Tournament started for real, now the real bets - and thus the real money - could come into circulation.

He leaned over the table, knowing he should just be quiet but unable to follow his own rationality, and caught the eyes of Fred with his own. "No, Fred," he said, "the real profit is yet to be made."

* * *

><p>The next day was a Saturday, which meant people would be sleeping late, and that the halls of Hogwarts would be mostly deserted. That gave Harry, Ron, Fred, and George ample space and time to discuss their next course of action in privacy. They choose, on Fred and George's insistence, to meet in the library, because nobody would expect to find any of them there.<p>

Harry saw no fault in that logic. And after he had used a neat little spell called _Muffliato_ he had read somewhere a long time ago, which filled the ears of the surrounding people with an unidentifiable buzzing sound, they could discuss their plans in peace.

"How much did we earn to keep exactly?" Harry asked the twins, when he was sure the coast was clear.

"That we get to keep?" Fred said, thinking. "About two Galleons, I suppose."

"Two Galleons?" Harry said, raising his eyebrow. "That's not… really as much as I was hoping for. Oh well, that will be amended for in the near future. Two Galleons each means we can throw eight Galleons as a bonus on the next batch-"

"No, you misunderstand, Harry," George said, interrupting Harry. "That's just two Galleons. As in only two."

"Oh..." Harry blinked, then he started thinking. "Oh. Ah - how much is it if we, how should I put it, _waited_ with paying back the winners?"

"Waited?" Ron said, clearly not liking where Harry was going with it. "That's not strictly speaking legal, is it?"

"Just temporary, of course," Harry assured.

"I dunno, Harry," Fred said, for once looking to pass over a chance of mischief. "That could turn ugly, my friend. The last thing you'd want is the whole school out for your head."

"Okay, listen." Harry leaned forward over the table, creating intent with his body language. "Humour me here, guys. What if we, say, doubled the interest?"

Ron's eyes showed an ounce of interest beneath the discomfort. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if we throw them a bone? What if we say that if they let us keep their winnings, they can double up their next income, should they bet _and_ win again? Now, I know that not all of them will agree, but some might."

"I don't see why we can't just pay them what we owe and create another bet," Ron said, confused. "Like we did. We earned a profit! Let's not get too carried away by one small success."

Ron Weasley, ladies and gentlemen, Harry thought, the voice of reason.

"The only problem is, Ron," Harry said, "that if we have no money - we cannot afford to raise the stakes on our bets. Now, we could alter the market and say we have more money than we actually have - nobody can check the validation of such all that easily - but that would be an even bigger risk. If we just do as we did this time, the money we earn will be scant, but the money we lose... can become great. There is little gain, but a fucking lot of risk in these bets." Harry paused, wondering how best to proceed. "If, however, we say that if we keep their winnings, then we have more money to play for ourselves. Granted, they are not exactly our money, but it is ours to play for as long as we sit on them. How many Galleons do we have now?"

"Fifty Galleons," Fred answered uneasily, afraid of Harry's intentions with them.

"Okay, let's say that we can convince a number of people and we will end up having thirty Galleons before the next round of bets - that's seems feasible. Then we can raise the stakes and, should the odds be in our favour, earn a helluva lot more than what we do now."

"But if the odds are not in our favour, we will stand to loose even more, won't we?" Ron said.

"Yes." Harry nodded. "Yes. The risk of the plan is high, but so can the earnings be." Harry raised his eyes and held each of theirs in turn. "The corridors of Hogwarts are filled with gold, just waiting for someone to lay claim to all its magnificent riches. We must be diligent, we must take chances, and we must be prepared to make sacrifices."

"But Harry, making sacrifices is all good and well, but what you are asking is blind faith and hope," Fred said. "I mean no disrespect by this, but perhaps the reason why you are so willing to continue with this plan is because to you thirty or fifty Galleons isn't all that much. But to us – and to a lot of those who are playing and will want their money back, should they win – it's an entirely different matter. I can't even remember the last time I saw so much gold at the same time."

Harry tilted his head, looking at them curiously. "Who said anything about blind faith and hope? When setting the stakes, we just follow the name of the game, guys. What's driving motivator for every gambler?"

"Eh - money?" Ron said.

"Exactly, Ron! Exactly," Harry said, delighted. "But there is another, much more potent factor in this." Harry paused to see if they followed. When none of them spoke, he plunged onwards. "Sentimentality. Noticed the applaud Cedric Diggory received last night? How it compared to the other Champions? Most of our customers - if not all of them - will be rooting for Cedric Diggory, arguably the one with the smallest chance of winning. Right? We agree on that, don't we?"

"Yes," Ron said. "There's no way that git is gonna beat Krum."

"Right." Harry nodded. "And yet I'll bet you anything that most of the bets will be made on Cedric Diggory. Especially if we raise the odds on him. That way we'll combine the two things that drive all gamblers - sentimentality and money. And since we have most of their money, we can raise the odds quite high, making it seem like they have everything to gain."

"When they have very little in reality." Fred actually _gulped_. "That's bold." He and George shared a look with raised eyebrows, then they turned and look at Harry at exactly the same time. It was, Harry thought, very uncanny. "If you must go broke, do it in style - that's what we always say. We are in."

"Yeah." Ron nodded, some of the unease leaving his face, when his mind was made up. "Guess I am, as well."

"Okay," Harry said, and drew a short, sharp breath of determination. "Fred, George - you must spread the word immediately. Make as many deals as you can to keep the money in our hands. The more money we keep, the more we can earn the next time. And be sure to mention the increasing in the odds on Cedric Diggory. We must give people a reason to bet on him. When should we put the end date to? The day before?"

George shook his head. "No. If there will be just as many bets as there was the last time, we'd have trouble counting all the bets before the first task. How about a week before? That way, we can count everything and get an overview of our chances."

"Okay." Harry nodded. "Okay. That's how we do it, then."

* * *

><p>The weeks went on, and the weather turned cold and wet. Harry bore witness to the decay of flowers and trees with a detach feeling of sorrow. Leafs turned brown and scattered across the lands of Hogwarts in a perfect symbolism of his ever-growing doubt. Everything falls to decay, he reminded himself, when he looked out over the Forbidden Forrest, which, uncannily to Harry, stayed pretty much untouched as the winter pushed on ever harder.<p>

Lord Voldemort, however, didn't revisit Harry in the nights. Ron wasn't punished for his doubt of himself in Charms, as Flitwick had been most lenient in his work course up to the First Task. Perhaps he knew that the students' minds were elsewhere. Fred and George seldom spoke of their illicit actions in the corridors - as Harry had expected of them - but he had a feeling the bets were going rather well.

A couple of days before the ending of the betting round; George came to Harry and confirmed his suspicions.

"We got to keep a little over thirty Galleons," George said one evening in the Great Hall, the nature of his excitement apparent in his voice. "Not many have placed their bets yet, however." He paused, then straightened up. "But we shall strive to be persuasive in our endeavours."

Harry, too, kept himself busy, coaching Ron. Harry had always committed his acts of practice in his lonesome, but seeing as Ron really seemed to need a spot of help, Harry decided – as he had promised himself – that he was the man for the job.

"No, no, no," Harry said, for the millionth time he felt. "Your wrist, Ron, your fucking wrist! It's far too firm, rigid in its motions. Try to do it more fluently - y'know, like a... like a dance!"

Ron sighed and dropped himself lazily on the bench by wall of the classroom. "I feel like a bloody mental doing this," he said "We've been at it for hours without results. I'm just not as good as you at this, Harry."

"Look, Ron," Harry said, "it wasn't always easier for me, either." But Harry could see Ron's point. They _had_ been at it for hours, hours that had yielded no progress. And the spell that Ron was trying to master was only the simple (at least in Harry's mind) Summoning Charm, _Accio_.

"That's a lie," Ron said, lazily staring at Harry, across the room. Harry stood in the open space of the classroom, where all the tables and chairs had been scattered away by Harry's last spell, the Banishing Charm, _Depulso_. "I was there. I saw how easy it was for you back then. And back then we were only little first years!"

"That was only because I didn't know how bloody hard magic really is," Harry responded. "I just did it without overthinking it too much."

"Yeah, well, I know how bloody hard this is," Ron said, groaning and dropping back on the bench.

"Maybe that's your problem, then," Harry said softly.

Ron shrugged. "I dunno - what do you mean? What are you on about?"

"Maybe the fact that you know how hard it is," Harry began, "has made you questioning your own capability. Maybe all you need is this first one - just this first success - and then you'll have built your confidence back up. You have the capability, Ron. I know you do."

Ron, for the briefest of moments, looked at the ceiling with obvious consideration. Then he turned his back to Harry, muttering a quiet- "Whatever -and then he promptly went to sleep. Or pretended to, at least.

Harry sighed, and went back to his own business. Sometimes Ron's complete lack of ambition really drove him to the edge of madness. On the other hand, however, he, Harry, knew that Ron was the best friend he could have ever asked for. And, really, if Ron didn't share in Harry's love for duelling curses and charms, or the wonders of magic in general, then that was all right, as well.

Harry could even sympathize with the notion. Had he been in Ron's position he would have, no doubt, been no different. Many of their classmates were even worse than Ron - and Harry never found any problem in that. So why was Ron so different?

Because he is my friend, Harry thought. And that, Harry knew, could mean danger. Harry had long since accepted that his life was shrouded in danger, for reasons Harry found unfathomable. But in danger, when people are pushed to the very edge of the abyss, staring into the eyes of the man who want you dead, Harry had found his will to live greater than his fear of dying.

That, rather than any real skill, had saved his life in the past.

But could he rely on such... instincts, if Lord Voldemort kept coming back for him? In the end, wouldn't the strongest, as nature dictates it, survive? Did that mean he was meant to die? That Voldemort, for whatever reasons he might have, would just keep on coming back for Harry, until he was dead.

No, Harry shook his head, that only meant Voldemort was meant to die!

Harry did not know why Voldemort was after him. Dumbledore did. Harry did not know when Voldemort would be back. Neither, Harry reasoned, did Dumbledore. However, Harry thought that Dumbledore was of the opinion that Voldemort would be back. And to that Harry agreed completely.

And then Harry would be in danger once again.

Harry lifted his wand, a sense of purpose in his movements and determination within his heart, and weaved the wand with careful precision in front of him. Two chairs rose and stormed towards him immediately; Harry, training his wand at the target in mind, then propelled the chairs towards the table in the back of the room, close by the end wall, with a half-thought. His precision, however, lacked the final touch, because the chairs stormed over the table and into the wall, shredding to tatters onto the floor.

"Fuck!" Harry cursed softly, glaring. This was, albeit non-verbally and strictly speaking with a bit more of a challenge, the exact same things that his year-mates would be doing in a few days. He had always been well ahead in Charms (along with Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration), but with all the excitement going around - along with the troubles he encountered with a Water Conjuration Charm over the last couple of weeks - Harry had been rather too busy to take care of his own progress.

That just couldn't do. He was in danger. Always in danger.

Harry looked back at Ron, who was by now fast asleep, and thought with something dangerously close to envy that it would be so much easier to just give in, to relax. But then Harry remembered his first meeting with Voldemort, he remembered his experience in the Chambers of Secrets, and he remembered his first ever duel against Draco Malfoy. He had almost lost on all occasions. But he had felt _alive_!

He wanted to feel that again.

Harry got cracking again, slinging spells with vigour.

Do not go gentle into that good night, even if the darkness of the night seems inevitable.

Do not go gentle.

* * *

><p>Judgment day arrived, but Harry didn't see nor hear from the twins. Ron told him that they had been seen going around muttering softly between them. Harry didn't know if that was something to worry about, but he thought it might be.<p>

The next day, six days before the First Task, George approached him in the Entrance Hall. The conversation was brief, but very enlightening.

"We are fucked," George said, taking Harry by the sleeve and steering him away from the crowd of students. "We are _so_ fucked."

Harry frowned, trying to resist George's pull, when he noticed where he was being pushed. "Ah - George, not that I don't want to talk or anything, but I don't think this is really the ideal place or time for... whatever this is."

George tore open the door to the broom closet, all but heaved Harry into it, stepped in, and shut the door behind him. "Shut up, you arrogant bastard, and use your magic on the door."

Harry sighed and drew his wand, pointing it at the door. "_Muffliato,_" he intoned lazily, then gave George his full attention. "If the school is abuzz with rumours after this, then I will transform you into something truly hideous."

George ignored him. "You know what's happen, Harry? You know what has befallen us?"

"Well, I guess my plan to manipulate the students of Hogwarts using their emotions and greed didn't pan out the way we intended?" Harry said softly. "Was it Krum? It was Krum, wasn't it? They voted for him."

"Your plan, my friend - it didn't work!" George said, then lifted his hand to his neck. "We are now buried in shit this deep! Do you know the kind of money we owe now?"

Harry reached for a smile and found a grimace. "Diggory might win."

"Against Krum? No, Diggory might not win. Diggory _will_ lose. The Hufflepuffs are not even talking about his chances of winning - they are talking about what an honour it is that it was a Hufflepuff who got chosen as the Champion of Hogwarts. They do not care about winning! In their eyes, in Diggory's eyes, he has already won!"

"I'm sure Diggory will do his best," Harry said, trying to appease George and reassure himself. "He wouldn't have entered his name if he didn't think he at least stood a chance."

"Every seventh year student put their name in that damn cup!" George was on the verge of shouting, and Harry understood his rage completely. "By your logic, you must think every single one of them thought they might actually get selected and might actually win! People do things sometimes without thinking their actions through! _You_ are a prime example of that!"

"Okay, calm down," Harry said. "Just calm down and let me think for a moment."

"I will not calm down!" George bellowed. "You have pissed away our money and brought a debt upon us that we have no hope to repay, not until you can get to your vault - and that's over a month away. We don't just owe a few students some Galleons anymore, we owe the whole fuckin' school!"

"I said, calm down," Harry said, soft as a whisper. "You must realize what we have to do."

"Fred suggested we moved away and enlisted in another school, but the only two other schools that we know of is here right now - some of them even taking part in the bet - so we can't do that, either," George said mockingly.

"Well – wait." Harry blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "You received bets from the other students, as well?" Harry said, and the tone in his voice changed significantly in its warmth. "Please tell me you didn't."

It was George's turn to look slightly self-conscious. "Well, y'know, it seemed unfair that they should not be able to take part in the game if that's what they wanted. You know, unity and all that shit Dumbledore was talking about. And it was only a few of them, anyway. Not like it changed anything in the grand scheme of things."

"Do you, even for a moment, think that even one of them voted on Diggory?" Harry asked angrily. "Did you even stop to think what their contribution might mean for our calculations and plans?"

"Well, we thought that a few of them wouldn't make any difference. We thought that Hogwarts' students would vote for Hogwarts' Champion. Almost none of them - including the Hufflepuffs - voted for Cedric Diggory. We were fucked no matter what!"

"Okay, okay." Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair. "All right. No point in pointing fingers now. We must know what the First Task is."

George frowned in confusion. "What's that gotta help?"

"We must know Diggory's chances," Harry said, speaking more to himself rather than George. "If we know the First Task, then we can determine Diggory's chances of winning. And then we can make a plan of action – if one is needed."

"There is no plan of action to make, Harry," George said, getting angry in his confusion. "Don't you get it yet? The Tournament has chosen him - no matter what the Task is we cannot interfere."

"As far as I know, the only thing Diggory cannot do is forfeiting his participation."

"Yes, which means he must fight. There is nothing we can do to stop him!"

"Yes, there is, George!" Harry said, grinning broadly. "There is always a way. Or there is in this case, at least."

George took a deep, calming breath. "Ah, why the fuck can't you get it into your head that we can't stop this from happening! The Tournament will continue."

"Yes, it will." Harry nodded. "But does it have to be Cedric Diggory who fights? What if I took his place instead?"

The retort died on George's lips as he processed Harry's words. "What, you want to switch spots with him?" he said, then a look of utmost apprehension - something Harry had never seen on either of the twins faces before - stretched over his features. "You must be crazy! Harry, you are fourteen years old. People die in this Tournament!"

"Yeah, the old ones." Harry shrugged. "I am sure the safety of this Tournament will be greatly improved compared to the Tournaments of the past."

"Even still, you really think Diggory - if it is even possible - would just let you fight his battle?"

"Fuck no!" Harry laughed. "No, he'd rather die after what happened last year - and I think if he willingly gave me the spotlight, the Goblet of Fire might... exert some kind of punishment upon Cedric Diggory. But... if he gave up his space unwillingly, if he was forced to stay away, and someone else would forcefully take his place, then Cedric would have broken no vows which might bind him. No harm should befall him then."

"Okay, that _might_ work - I'm not saying it won't. It just seems kinda sketchy, but it might. There is just one obvious problem."

"Which is?"

"Well, Cedric Diggory is a tall, handsome (in some girl's eyes, at least) seventh year bloke and you, my friend, are, well, not _that_." George couldn't help grinning. "Don't you think people would notice if Harry Potter appeared to the First Task instead of Cedric Diggory?"

Harry smiled. "George," he said, "ever heard of the Polyjuice Potion?"


End file.
